Superman
by a.l.russo
Summary: He is Superman, and he has come to save her in the knick of time. Renee/Jack. On-going! PLEASE R/R because you are amazing : D
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello good people of FanFiction! This is a Renee/Jack fic, and I plan to make it an ongoing story; something I never do but I want to try! PLEASE review and give me your feedback; any suggestions are completely encouraged! Written in present-POV. Thanks and have a sparkling day

She finds herself falling.

Falling into bitter nothingness, the wind pressing hard against her. She reaches out for something, anything, to grab onto, to have support, but all she feels is the air slipping through her fingers. She tries to scream out for help, desperately, but there is no reply.

She looks down, to try and find what she is going to fall onto, but only finds empty blackness. Is she in a black hole? Is she ever going to get out?

Will she ever feel an impact?

The last question scares her, and she feels her heart pump hard against her chest. She's falling, and she can't prevent it. Another thought comes to her: how did she even end up in this constant free-fall?

She finally sees the ground, and with a gasp, prepares herself for impact. Flying her arms up to her face she feels her body tense as it readies itself for the crash…

She wakes up in her bed, bolting upright and panting heavily. She feels as though all of the air has been sucked up and out of her, and like a fish on dry land she is gulping every bit that she can of it. Her fingers are wrapped tightly around her sheets, and in the dim light of dawn, she can see that her knuckles are actually white. "Christ," she mumbles to herself, her lungs and body still craving air. She brings her palms up to her face and sighs, her hands sliding down right beneath her eyes.

The only source of light came from her window, peaking rebelliously through her blinds. As her breathing began to steady she scanned her room; clothing was flung in various piles, and she recognized the piles as dirty and clean. She thought of how she used to be when she was working for the FBI; her clothing would be primly folded and ironed in her drawers, and everything was arranged and organized. Now she just didn't care.

Her sheets, she notices, are wrinkled and pulled out from underneath her mattress. And they are also… damp? She runs her hand lightly across the spots where the satin feels wet, and realizes that it was where her back laid. She then feels her pajama shirt; it is completely soaked through. She steals a glance at her alarm clock, and it reads in bright, neon green numbers, 4:05 A.M.

She sighs, annoyed and exhaustedly. Her sheets never used to be this wet, or out of place. She never used to wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air. She never used to not care what happened to her. Her world is falling apart, and she knows damn well of this, but she continues to fight every step of the way.

But how long can she continue until the resistance fatigues?

She shakes her head, as if to shake the thought away. She wouldn't let herself think that right now, especially at this time of the morning. Knowing that she would not be able to go back to sleep, she sighs and runs her fingers through her burnt-red hair. She flings the covers off of her and heads toward her kitchen.

Over the months, her apartment has become more and more barren. Pictures she had of herself with friends from the bureau were taken down and stored away in the depths of her closet, all of them except for one with her and Larry at the Christmas party two years back; she can't bring herself to take that one away.

She makes herself coffee and sits down at her wooden, round kitchen table. It was meant for two people, and at the time when she bought it, she had had someone in mind to share it with. She loved the idea of waking up in the morning next to someone she admired and loved, and sharing with him what she had dreamt over coffee.

Now, this didn't seem realistic.

She looks up at her microwave clock, and sighs softly as it reads 5:15. She pitches the pot of coffee, for it will only get cold, and goes to take a shower.

She noticed that she did her best thinking when she was in the shower, letting the hot water hit against her back and warm her body as she stood in it aimlessly after washing her hair. But she hadn't been thinking much lately, so she found no purpose to stand so long in it as she used to.

Scurrying out of the shower and wrapping a towel around herself, she flips her hair and lets it air-dry. Although a lot of people thought it was, her hair was not naturally straight. It was actually very wavy, and very thick. Every morning, when she worked with the FBI, she would wrestle with it for about an hour, trying to flatten it and shape it in the way she had wanted. Granted, it took a lot of effort and unneeded frustration in the morning, but she always enjoyed the outcome. But she liked letting it be in the mornings; after all, she had no one or nothing to impress anymore.

She walks back into her room and rummages through her clean pile, digging out a pair of comfortable, gray sweats and a long-sleeved, dark blue shirt. Once on, she smiles very gently to herself; she likes the feeling of the sleeves tightly fitting around her arms.

As she goes to hang her towels over her shower, she hears a heavy knock on the door. This makes her jump, and she looks over to the door, and then the clock on her oven; 6:30. "What?" she whispers to herself, wondering who could be up at this hour. Walking over slowly to the door, she grabs a pan (and instantly feels completely idiotic for not having any other form of a weapon on her) and swings open the door. When seeing the person on the other side of the door, the pan slips from her hand, landing with a soft thud on her carpet. "Jack," she whispers, her breath caught in her throat.

But something is off in him. His brilliant, blue eyes are darkened, and whenever she sees him with her, she notices that they are always soft, and comforting. Eyes, she thought to herself many times before, that would hold her tightly and never let her go. "Renee," he says, rushed, and lets himself in.

"Uh," she stammers, surprised by his hurriedness and closes the door behind him. "What's going on?"

"I don't have time to explain," he says, and he begins to look around her apartment, fervently. She has absolutely no idea as to why he came, but in the tiniest of ways, she feels immensely guilty.

Jack had been calling her for the past month or so, and each time he called, she hadn't responded. She, to be truthful, never wanted him to hear how broken she was. How much she had changed. But there hadn't been a day that went by where she did not think of him.

"Well, can you give me the short version?" She asks him, not in a curt way but in a way where she was desperate to understand. Inwardly, she sighs. Wasn't that the situation all of the time?

"Renee," He says, walking over to her and lightly grabbing onto her shoulders. His touch makes her melt, and she watches as his eyes soften to her. "I will tell you everything, but right now, all that I can say is that you're in danger."

Yay for suspense! What'dya think? It's A/U, so if you're wondering if you missed something on the show, you didn't! Please R&R because I love you


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Holy lots of reviews, Batman! Thanks so much for the love; never thought I'd get such a big response in just a few days! Hope you enjoy the love that nearly oozes off of these two in the show as much as I do! : ) R/R as always, and enjoy!

He doesn't have the heart to do this.

He doesn't want to see Renee after she has made it apparent that she does not want him around. And, he's respected that. He tried to call her a couple of times, and she didn't want to talk to him or see him again. After all, who could blame her?

He doesn't want to have to wake Renee, either. Sleep must have been her best friend, now that she was... Christ. Did he even _know _what Renee was up to these days? He knew she was hurting and that she had become "darker"... or at least that was what everyone had been saying. He hasn't seen her since two months ago, but so much has changed and time has dragged on so slowly, that it feels like years.

Sighing, he gets to her door and raises his knuckles to knock. But for a moment, something stops him. He brings down his fist and examines his hands. They are dry from the horrendous winter endured in the city, and the dryness brings out all of the scars etched onto them. Did Renee have scars? Scars that he has never seen?

New scars?

He shakes his head gently to himself. He's doing this because Renee is important to him, regardless of whether he is as much to her, and he only wants her safe. Sighing, knocks heavily on the door and waits for a moment. His ears strain for footsteps on the other side, and then suddenly, the door swings open.

She is dressed in gray sweatpants with the word "A EAGLE" written down the side of her left leg in dark blue. Her shirt hugs her waist and arms, complimenting her curves, and her hair is wavy and air-dried; something he has never seen before but instantly likes. Her eyes, at first, are hard and confused, and he has to suppress a chuckle that rises from his throat when he sees her holding a cooking pot in her right hand. But when she recognizes that it's him, the pot slips from her fingers and her mouth drops, slightly agape. "Jack," she says in a breath, and it comes out like a gasp.

He wants to hold her. He wants to scoop her off of her feet and never let go of her. He wants to hear her laugh, see her smile, watch her eyes light up. He wants to be with her.

To touch her.

But as soon as lust had filled his heart, so did his task, and he walked into her apartment, quickly. "Renee," he greets, bluntly.

"Uh," he hears her stammer from behind him, as he quickly looks for some form of a weapon. They need to leave, and she needs to have something to protect herself. Although he did have a spare gun in his car, it had a tendency to jam. He figures that if that is the case, he will take that gun and give her his. "What's going on?" She asks him in the same confused tone.

"I don't have time to explain," he responds, gruffly, his back to her. God, he felt like an asshole. This was _not _the way he had imagined seeing her again. He thought something along the lines of a candle-light dinner, maybe even just curling up on her couch and watching the nightly news with her. Funny how life can screw with you.

"Well, can you give me the short version?" Her tone is not short, but more in the same confused state. When he turns to look at her, he can see in her eyes that she is desperately trying to piece things together, trying to make of what his being there means. She would know in time, and that made him feel somewhat better.

He turns around to face her. "Renee," he says to her softly, and places his hands on her shoulders. He notices that they are warm, and that they are still as tone as he remembered. "I will tell you everything, but right now, all that I can say is that you're in danger."

Her eyes widen, and her face turns as white as a sheet. Oh, God, why does he have to do this to her? Why does he have to bring her broken world down as soon as she is just starting to rebuild the cities from the rubble again? "Danger?" she asks, her voice almost inaudible.

"I'll explain, I promise," he says to her, getting comfort in knowing that is one thing he can tell her for certain, "but right now, you have to come with me. Do you have any sort of weapon here?"

For a moment, he swears that he sees a faint, ghost-trace of a smile on the corner of her mouth, but it is gone as soon as he sees it. "Jack, I opened the door holding a cooking pot as self-defense,"

Of course, her gun was taking by the FBI when she was fired. Taking her by the hand, he leads her out of her apartment. "Come with me," he says to her.

When he feels a slight tug on his hand, he looks back at her. She is hesitant, but only for a second, and if he hadn't been trained, no one would have noticed it, for she quickly followed him. Something kept her back, but he knew better than to question it now.

As he ran down the steps of her apartment building, their hands remained intertwined. He likes the feeling of it, the warmth of her hand pressed up against his. It is something he isn't used to. He looks back at her face as they bolt down the steps; it is blank, and staring back at his. He turns his head as he fights off the urge of his random, inappropriate smile.

He leads her to his car, parked in an alley-way behind her building. It is a Ford SUV, a gift that Kim had actually given him for his birthday. Without her knowing, he got bulletproof windows and metal installed into it; when she asked if there was something different, he smiled at his daughter and said, "Just decided to wax it."

As she buckles into the passenger seat, he reaches into the back of his car for the gun. Pulling his gun off of his waist, he hands it to her, and loads the other gun. "Why don't you just give me that one?" She asks, while examining it.

"It jams, sometimes," he says back to her, and in a swift motion he loads the gun and cocks it. He pulls out of the alley-way quickly, and hurtles onto the street.

"Where are we going?" She asks, her eyes scanning the road. At this point, he can tell that her mind has switched into a more professional mode, and in a way, it is appealing to him.

"The airport," he tells her, and digs out the two tickets and passports he has kept warm in his jacket pocket. "We're flight 226, terminal C in JetBlue," He turns onto the freeway and guns the accelerator.

"'Alexandra Stanford?'" She asks, looking at him. Her eyes are hard, and in a way, it looks like she feels that she has somehow betrayed her.

"I'm Edward Stanford," he says back to her, his eyes quickly glancing into her ash-green ones and then back to the road, "You're my wife. We're going to suburban Massachusetts to see my family. My mother just had knee surgery and you two are very close."

"Jack--"

"I'm a doctor, and you're a therapist. We have been married for five years." He sighs, and looks back over to her at a red light. "Got it?"

She stares at him, her brow furrowed and her eyes darting from her passport to him. "Jack, tell me what's going on."

He doesn't want to. He just wants to get her away from the city as he possibly can, and keep her safe. Yet he sighs, and when the light turns green he tells her. "Vladimir is still alive." His words are sharp and fast, like ripping off a band-aid.

He looks back at her, and sees that her face has turned even whiter than before. "Impossible," she tells him, "I stabbed him more than once. Jack, I stabbed him in the eye. You were there. I..." But her voice trails, and her mouth gapes, slightly. Her eyes dart from his, to his stab wound.

"That's not important, Renee," he tells her softly, and covers the spot with his jacket. "Listen, I don't know how, but he's alive, and he's tailing you. He wants revenge, Renee."

They pull into the terminal, and he begins to get out of the car, but she tugs on his sleeve. "Wait," she tells him.

He sits back down into the car, and stares into her eyes. They are soft and filled with tears, yet they do not spill over. "Why are you doing this, Jack?" she asks him softly.

He continues to look at her, and hates what has become of her. She is so broken and beaten and torn that it tears his heart in two, and he would like nothing more than to super-glue it and put band-aids on it to mend it whole again. He would do anything for her, and he wished she knew that. Maybe, he thinks to himself, she already does.

"We're going to miss the flight," he responds, and hands her her ticket.

She looks up at him, softly. "So what happens now?"

"He's going to tail us," he responds, "and he's going to try and kill you." He grabs her hand, brushing it lightly with his thumb, and says to her, "And I'm not going to let him."

Yay! A lil' fluff here and there is always necessary between these two ; ) R/R; the next chapter will be up in a few days or so! : D


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hello you awesome people, you! Thank you so very much for all of the reviews and love! It means the world to me to check my inbox and see that someone else has commented on my work. You are all so fantastic!

I'm sorry this one took a little longer to put up; in certain places, I don't have Internet, so I can't update as fast as I'd like to! But don't think I'm forgetting about the story; I've already written three new chapters on my iPhone. Ohh, I think you will all love it!

Please R/R (though you seem to have that down pat ; ) ) and have a wonderful day!

She wants to laugh out loud.

It is so insane; Jack Bauer, the one and only man who cared for her, cared enough to get her out of her own messes and risk being dragged down in the process, was holding her hand as they raced through customs. He is leading her, and she likes that, because God knows she needs someone to give her boundries. To take the wheel.

"How are you doing?" She hears Jack ask in front of her, his head turning back to face her.

"I'm fine," she responds, gruffly and focused. She feels his eyes studying her, but she knows that he won't ask.

Although she isn't quite sure how he does it, he is able to get the guns through security and store them away safely in his jacket. They arrive early at their gate, and he finds two seats for both of them.

Once settling into the chair, she looks down at him and says to him softly, "I'll be right back,"

"Where are you going?" he asks her, soft and gently.

She points to the newsstand across from their gate. "Just give me two minutes."

"I'll come with you," he says to her. At first, she feels offended; he really doesn't trust her? As if reading her thoughts, he quickly adds, "I just want to get something for the plane."

She pulls her lips into a tight smile and walks over to the store. As he is looking for something to eat, she finds the Tylenol PM and brings it to the counter. He follows after her, and refuses to let her pay. "Please," he says, looking up at her, his eyes twinkling. "let me."

She doesn't have the heart to argue with him, so she lets him. She notices that he eyes the pills but does not show it on his face; she just knew how to read him. He can probably read you like a book, she thinks to herself, and knows that it's probably true.

They go back to the seats they were originally sitting at, and he digs out a packet of M&M's, and hands them to her. When she looks up at him in inquiry, he smiles softly at her. "I know chocolate is your favorite," he digs out another packet of M&M's, and tears the packaging. "it's mine, too."

She smiles at him, softly, and opens her packet, too. "The blue was always my favorite," she tells him, staring down at the M&M. "My dad and I used to share them together."

"How old were you?" He asks her, popping another one in his mouth.

"I was three," she says, sighing, the corners of her mouth curving slightly.

They eat it slowly in silence, the surrounding sounds of the terminal blanketing them. She knew it was coming, the question about what he had bought for her. "Sleeping pills?" he asks her finally, simply and softly.

She shrugs it off, trying to make it seem like it's no big deal. "I wake up in the middle of the night, sometimes," she says to him, her eyes on the label. She looks back up at him gently, and sees that his eyes are still fixated on her, as if to say, "And?"

She sighs. She doesn't want to explain. She wants to keep it all inside her, not spill her demons out, and especially not to him; he's already doing too much for her. But she has to start somewhere, with someone, and who could be better than him? "I still have nightmares. You know, about..." Her voice trails, and she quickly finishes, "I can't sleep without the pills." Her words are sharp and poignant, and just the look in his eye she can see that she has torn his heart in two.

He nods, and stores the pills away in his other pocket. "Okay," he says softly to her. He grabs her hand that is resting on the arm rest of the chair, and she does not resist.

As soon as their fingers brush, there is a voice over the gate to say that their flight is boarding. When she looks down to her ticket, she gasps slightly, to herself. First class? He bought her first class tickets?

He stands up, and offers her his hand. "Ready to go?" he asks her, casually.

"Jack," she says slowly, looking down at the ticket and then back up to him again, "This is too much," At first she means the ticket, but she realizes that her words mean something else, too.

He does not take the double meaning. He shakes his head and grabs her hand, leading her into the line of other passengers. "Renee, it was nothing, honestly,"

She opens her mouth to protest, but he beats her to it. "We're not having this discussion," he says to her, sternly and playfully. She closes her mouth, feeling she had been put in her place.

They board onto the plane and find their seats. They didn't have any carry-ons, so they sat down patiently while waiting for other people to put their things in the over-head cabinets; he even helped people with their luggage. Once sitting down and on the run-way, she begins to eat her M&M's from the plastic bag she had been carrying when he bought their things. "Good idea," he says to her, chuckling.

She smiles back at him, softly. She was in no mood to even try to fake something. She was exhausted and filled with so much emotion and confusion that it drained her. But the man sitting in the seat next to her is Superman. He sits there timidly, eating his M&M's one by one and staring softly out the window, yet she knows under his timid appearance that he would do anything for her.

She likes that.

He notices her staring at him, and a smile creeps onto his face. "What?" he asks, slowly and child-like.

"Nothing," she says to him, and in the first time in so long that she can't remember, she smiles back at him, fully. His expression is composed, yet knowing him like she does, he is shocked. She hides her laughter and let's her fingers brush his; he encompasses her tiny hand into his own colossal one.

Once they are in the air, the captain announces that the flight will be about two and a half hours until reaching Boston Logan airport, and that it is currently sunny and sixty-two degrees out. A stewardess comes over, and asks what they would like to drink.

"Hard liquor," She mumbles while he is ordering, and he nudges her, playfully. "I'll just have a soda-water," she says to the stewardess, politely.

Their hands are intertwined as they wait, neither of them saying a word. Then slowly, she begins to feel the heat of his hand. It was like when they were running to the airport, how chaos was ensued around them yet he had held onto her tightly, not letting her drift off or get lost. She feels her heart flutter in her chest, and is surprised; she hasn't felt that in a while.

Nonetheless, she looks down at his hand again, and then back at his face. His head is turned, and he is staring out of the window, expressionless. He's probably jumped off of a plane before, she thinks to herself, smiling. She looks out the window with him, marveling on how small she truly is in the world.

But not to him.

She feels her head begin to spin, and she places it on her shoulder. Right before she is about to drift, she hears the pills roll around on the floor.

And to her absolute joy and wonder, she feels an arm wrapped around her.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Hello again! This chapter, I will admit, is a little short one. BUT, hang in there- there's more to come! ALSO, I would like to apologize in advance if there are any serious grammar or spelling mistakes; I've written these chapters on my iPhone and I had to re-format them on the computer quickly! Thanks again for all of the support you guys have been dishing out ; )

He used to think he could save the world.

When he first entered CTU, when he first got his gun and his badge, he thought that he could do anything. He felt invincible, like he could conquer the world and be home in time for dinner.

Oh, how wrong he was.

He, instead, found himself in this never-ending pit of stress and fear; what if, at the end of the day, he couldn't save his country?

What if the people he so desperately tried to protect just ended up getting hurt?

When his fears came true, and Nina murdered Teri, something inside of him snapped. He vowed to never let that happen again, so in return, his skin grew thicker and his stare colder. He interrogated with a harsher manner, demanding information from people, and torturing them when they refused. He just stopped feeling, stopped caring.

He understands exactly what she is feeling.

He thinks this every time he is on an airplane and staring out of the window, looking over the stretches of land from thousands of feet above the ground. It reminds him how big the world is, and how small he is compared to it.

Suddenly, he feels a pair of eyes on him. He turns around, and sees her staring at him softly, and he can't help but let a smile slowly crawl onto his face. "What?" he asks her, playfully.

"Nothing," she replies, and what she does makes his breath catch in his throat: she smiles. She is smiling fully and genuinely at him, and it is such a rare event that he tries to study every curve and every angle of it, so he can store it in his mind and never let it go.

He feels her fingers brush against his, and he clasps onto her hand that is so tiny into his. This feels right, and judging by her actions, she felt it, too.

He looks back out the window, seeing a mountain-range above him. He thinks back to once, before he had entered CTU, he had gone sky-diving. His mother nearly had a heart-attack, but his father encouraged it. "You only live once, Son," he told him, "Go have fun."

They had ordered drinks earlier, and after what had seemed like a lifetime, the stewardess came back with their drinks. She began to say something, but stopped midway. "Aww, little thing must get sleepy by planes," the stewardess says to him, cheerfully.

At first, he doesn't understand, but he then feels heat radiating off of his shoulder. He looks down, and can't contain his smile as he sees her resting peacefully against him. He wraps an arm around her, and smiles back at the stewardess. "Yeah, she falls alseep, sometimes," he responds.

"I'll just leave Mrs. Stanford's drink on her tray, then," the stewardess replies back, opening her tray and leaving the can of Poland Spring resting in the groove. "Just let me know if you two need a blanket," she tells him with a wink, and then she is off.

He looks back down at her once the stewardess is gone. Her eyes, that had heavy bags sagging slightly underneath them, were closed, and her breathing was slow and steady. He slowly removes his arm from around her body, takes off his jacket, and wraps it around her. She stirs slightly, but only to move her hand up to his chest. He wraps his arm back around her, and sets his alarm on his phone to half an hour before they land.

He wanted to be the first thing she saw after a really deep rest.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Hey guys! I hope this chapter makes up for the little short one. Enjoy! : )

For the first time in a long time, she wakes up peacefully.

So peaceful, in fact, that she feels well-rested. Happy. Content. Something is wrong; when was the last time she felt this way?

She feels heat against her, and sees that he has wrapped his blanket around her shoulders, and he had an arm enclosed around her. She instantly likes it, but is confused.

"Hey, sleepy-head," she hears the stewardess behind her say, softly. She is a young woman in her mid to late twenties, and has a thick, sweet, southern accent. She is wearin heels and a blue apron, with her golden-blonde hair tied back in a bun. "Need anything?" she asks her, cheerfully.

"I'm all set, thanks," she responds to her, professionally and slowly. Her hand, she finally realizes, is still in his; when she looks over at him, he is snoring gently, peacefully.

She leans her head back on his shoulder, and sighs. This is the way it should be, she thinks. This is the type of life she should be leading now, not the one where she wakes up every morning, gasping for air. She should have never done this.

But she would have never met him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she hears above her, and she straightens her spine, "We are just about to land at Logan Airport in Boston, Massachusetts, in thirty minutes. The current time is about 3:30 in the afternoon, and the weather is 65 degrees and sunny. Your baggage terminal will be number three. Thank you for flying Jet Blue, we loved having you. We hope we enjoy your stay in Boston." The captain tells the crew on the plane to prepare for landing.

She looks over at him, and he is still sleeping. "Jack," she says softly, gently rubbing his arm to wake him.

He moans, and swallows. He opens his eyes slowly, and she is caught by the wonder of how light of a shade of blue they are. "Morning, sunshine," she whispers to him, the image of his eyes still brimming at the front of her mind. He smiles up at her, mumbling softly, "Look who's talking," he sits up, and declines the seat back to it's regular position. "Is my phone in that pocket?" he asks her, indicating to the right jacket pocket.

She looks down and realizes that his brown, worn out, leather jacket is draped loosely around her shoulders. She digs into his pocket, recognizing the groove of one of the guns and finds the phone. It is vibrating when she hands it to him, and having his phone secure in his hand, she gives him his jacket back.

"Damn thing was supposed to wake me up ten minutes ago," he mumbles, and flips it open, stilling the vibration. She wonders to herself why he had set an alarm, and multiple, rational reasons fly to the front of her mind so she does not question it.

She sits silently next to him while the plane lands. It is not a bad silence, more of a silence where she is collecting her thoughts, and, she assumes, his as well.

Her stomach flips when the wheels hit the landing strip. She could never quite explain it, but each time she hears the tires hit hard against the concrete, it sent shivers down her spine. She knows that he can sense her discomfort, so he lightly puts his hand on her forearm. "You alright?" he asks her, hushed.

"Fine," she responds, her fingertips gripping tightly onto the arm rest farthest away from him. Her knuckles are white, and she can't help but think to herself that that has been happening too often lately.

She steps off of the plane, and thanks the captain. She turns her head to see if he is behind her, and he is. Once out of the plane and in the terminal, she sighs, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

She has only been to this airport once, and that was when she was younger. Her father was a scientist, and a fanatic about nature. When he felt she was old enough, he took her leaf peeping; she remembered her parents fighting about it, saying that Washington had leaves that would do, but he heavily protested and insisted on taking her to

Massachusetts. Finally, after her mother had said yes, she was on a flight the next day.

Things have changed since she's last been here. There are more modern stores, and less Hudson News stands. There are multiple Starbucks in every gate, each packed to the brim.

Suddenly, her stomach flips, and her heart pumps in her chest as hard as it does when she has a nightmare. Seeing her stop, he puts a hand on her shoulder and brings his mouth close to her ear. "What is it, Renee," he says it as if it's a statement.

She turns to him, her eyes wide. "Something isn't right," she tells him, honestly. Her heart is pumping harder and faster than it ever has, and she swears that it makes an indent beneath her shirt with every beat.

She is glad to see in his eyes that he trusts her, blindly. "When did you first start feeling this," he asks, his tone the same, leader-like sounding as before. He leads her to a Starbucks, to make things seem normal to the naked eye.

"Just now," she says back to him, and she looks up at him, realizing how small she really is compared to him.

"Okay," he says, and she hears the muffled sound of a gun being cocked in his jacket. When she looks down, he responds, "I trust you, Renee, and I don't want to take any chances."

She nods, her eyes scanning the airport. She knew, regrettably, many things about Vladimir, but the one thing she was certain of was that he was smart. He would not attack her here, in such an open place. He would wait, wait for her to be alone.

To be vulnerable.

Her heart is pounding so hard and fast that it feels like it's humming, not beating. "Jack," she says to him, on the verge of pleading, "please. Let's go."

He stars at her, and she knows that he knows she isn't doing this for kicks. He nods, and says to her softly, "Okay."

They walk out of the airport, her eyes scanning the perimeter. She knew something was off, she could sense it.

And, suddenly, she hears the too-familiar sound of a gunshot.

A/N: DUN DUN DUN!! Oh, I know, it's intense. Oh my goodness, can't wait to share more with you guys and see what you think! : D


	6. Chapter 6

He can't remember the last time he was scared, but what she had just told him sent panic rushing through his veins.

He does not show it, though; he has to be the brave one right now. For her. Because he knows she needs him to be brave as much as he needs her to be okay.

She has to be okay.

"Something isn't right," she tells him in confidence, fear flooding her dark, green eyes. He has never seen her this scared, so shaken up. He feels guilty when he realizes that this is probably her state every night when she wakes up, terrified.

He trusts what she tells him, knowing that she would not say this unless she truly felt something was wrong. He just wants to protect her, and that, even if it kills him, is what he is going to do. "When did you start feeling this," he asks her, his tone hushed. He begins to lead her into a more crowded place, to make them look more casual. To the random eye, it was nothing, but to an eye that was trained, their body language spoke volumes.

"Just now," she says back to him, her eyes darting around the terminal and her chest heaving slightly beneath her shirt. He has pulled her into a Starbucks, for it is the most crowded place in the entire airport.

He can see that her breath is short, and it looks like she is about to break down and cry any second. But he could only tell, because he knew how to read people. How to read her. To anyone else, she seemed normal, unnerving. But to him, he is in close proximity to her. He can see her eyes as they fill with more and more worry when she looks around, fervently. He can feel her breath on him, short and sharp, each one getting closer and closer to hyperventilation. He wants to hug her, to tell her that everything is going to be fine, but this isn't the time nor the place.

Feeling the gun in his jacket, he cocks it, his jaw clenched in the process. He watches her eyes drop down to the sound, and she looks up at him, still fearful and yet, surprised. "I trust you, Renee," he tells her, responding to her expression. "I don't want to take any

chances."

Silently, she nods, and looks back out to the airport. He watches her expression, her eyes that have the power to catch his breath in his heart, are now fear-stricken and remind him of a defenseless child. One who needed to be protected.

To be told that what she was feeling was human.

She turns to him, her eyes... welling? She has tears in her eyes? He instantly feels his heart sink to the floor; this kills him. "Jack," she tells him, her voice cracking, although he's sure she's not aware of it, "let's go. Please."

She is begging him to leave. This takes him by surprise; she is usually the one to take control, to have the attitude of no-nonsense and tough it out. But she isn't like that now, at all. She is so

broken in this moment that her strong, prominent voice has reduced down to a soft, inaudible cry, all because of one man.

He wants to kill this bastard.

Instead, he nods softly to her, assuringly. "Okay," he tells her, and he leads her out of the Starbucks. She continues to look around the airport, and he doesn't blame her for doing so.

What he hears next, though, makes him so afraid that he swears his heart actually stops. Not because of the noise; he recognized it well,but because, for once, he knew why it was there.

As the gunshot rings through his ears, he has instinctually pushed her and himself to the ground. People all around him are screaming, and with his hand that he had placed on her back to get her to the ground, he feels her shaking like a leaf underneath it.

He pulls out his gun from his jacket pocket and crawls to a side-wall that acted like a partition between a gate and a Bose store. He checked behind him, and saw that although she was as white as a sheet, she followed closely.

When he is behind the partition with her, he hands her a gun. He trusts her, no matter what her state of mind, and she needs to know this.

With shaking hands she cocks the gun and begins to fire back. He, for a split second in the chaos, admires how she is able to get back on the horse in record time. Act as if nothing happened.

She's probably had a lot of practice.

The opposing gun shots fire back at them; people are still scrambling to get out, while others are absolutely paralyzed by fear.

He aims for the heads he sees behind the opposing partitions about twenty feet away from them. He can't tell what type of gun they're using, but he can tell just by the way they're holding it that it isn't big. He looks over at her, and she takes a shot, nailing a guy in the head.

There are only two shooters now, and God knows how many snipers there are watching, if any. The fact that she's in this situation with him somewhat blurs his senses; all of the extra energy he has, he is concerned about her safety. About her getting hurt.

He aims, and skims a guy past the right side of his head, yet it's

enough to make him fall over. The last man standing pulls out a bigger

gun than he had before, and starts firing.

By this point, almost everyone is out of the airport. He thinks by this time that the Boston police have already assembled a tag-team, and that they're on their way. In a few minutes they will surround the perimeter, and then on the leader's signal, burst into the airport and take all three of them down. He will explain that he works with CTU, that he is trying to protect her, that she means the world to him, and they will choose to either listen or not. He will beg for them not to

lock her up, to take him instead.

He knows how it works.

He keeps firing at the last man, but he ducks behind the partition each time he gets a clear shot of his head. The opposing man is firing what looks like a machine gun, not particularly aiming but shooting it in their direction. He hears her duck behind the partition, banging the gun against her hand. It jammed.

"Take mine!" he yells to her, for the sound of gunshots are constant. He is keeping one eye on the opposing man and the other on her.

"No!" she yells back at him, shaking her head. She hits the gun hard against her hand, and aims.

He sees it before it happens, and it happens in slow motion. She falls backward, the feeling of insufferable pain being displayed loudly on her face.

For a moment, he can't breathe.

Out of impulse, he takes his gun and starts to run toward the other partition. He knows that this is a suicide move. He knows, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care that this man is just one of Vladimir's men, he wants him dead.

He wants him dead right now.

He comes within ten feet away from the partition, and begins to fire. The man is so shocked that for a split-second, he loses focus.

This is all he needs. With his last remaining bullets he shoots him in the head at point-blank range.

He runs back to his side, his hands shaking hard. He slides onto his knees and begins to apply pressure to her shoulder. "Renee," he says softly, his voice full of guilt, "oh, God, Renee,"

She gasps while he pushes hard onto her shoulder, the pain apparent on her face. If her gun wasn't jammed and he hadn't run out of bullets, he would shoot himself in the shoulder, just so she wouldn't have to go through the pain alone.

He rips off his belt from his jeans and wraps it around her wound, pulling it tightly. She moans, loudly, with tears steaming down her face. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he says quickly and in one breath, his eyes welling and his voice breaking. He refuses to look at the pool of dark, crimson blood forming around them.

"Jack," she says, within her moan.

"I'm right here, don't worry," He says to her, his face leaning in closer to hers. He pushes against her shoulder even though his belt is sufficient, and with his free hand he holds her hand that is cupped around his cheek.

"Jack," she says, in between short breaths. Her body begins to shake violently underneath his hand with each breath she takes. "I'm cold,"

Without a moment's hesitation, he rips off his jacket and lifts her back off of the ground. She yells in pain, and he tries to block it out as he wraps the jacket around her.

His face is inches away from hers. Every moment he ever spent with her replays in his mind. He has to accept the fact that she may die, right here and now, although the thought alone makes him feel like his soul is ripped in half.

"Thank you, Jack," she says to him, although it's so light and inaudible that he has to lower his face even closer to hers. As he tries to figure out if she's thanking him for more than the jacket,

he sees her eyes begin to droop, and then, they close.

"No!" he yells, his words echoing the empty airport. He checks for a pulse; it's there, but barely.

The police and the paramedics burst in, following the sound of his cries. "Medic!" he yells, worry rising in his voice after hearing people enter the terminal, "I need a medic!"

Two paramedics come rushing over with a stretcher. They lift her gently on it, leading her to the ambulance. He follows, his stride fast enough to keep up with the stretcher, and he blocks out the words of them for he does not understand the terms they are speaking and does not feel like trying to.

When they bring her onto the ambulance bus, he follows, but is stopped by a young paramedic. "I can't let you on, sir," he tells him, "the police still need to question you."

"I know you're doing your job kid," he retorts, sternly, masking the utter fear rising in his tone, "but if you don't let me onto that bus I will have your balls shoved so far up your ass that you could taste them." He sighs, his hands still shaking. "The police can do whatever they want with me after, but please, let me go on."

The paramedic steps aside. "You had me at 'balls shoved up your ass,'" he says to him, and lets him inside.

He holds her hand while the sirens go on as it races down the highway to the hospital. They are sticking different types of tubes and needles into her arms, looking for a central line, removing his belt and putting gauze on the wound. He studies her face, her jaw line, her physique, memorizing everything about her, just in case this is the last time he'll ever see her again.

After what felt like hours, the paramedic turns to him. "Sir," he says, facing him, "she's stabilized."

His knees give way, and he drops, tears of relief uncontrollably flowing down his face.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Hello again! SO. You like so far? It's so very much fun to write!! I wanted to quickly explain that, if something is vague, it's for a reason! ; D Everything will make sense in the end, and all of the loose ends will be tied. THANKYOUSOMUCH for commenting and critiquing! It means so much. Enjoy!!

She can't feel anything.

She is in so much pain and shock that she feels like her body is trying desperately to protect her from the searing, horrendous pain throbbing in her shoulder.

She begins to feel her back warm, and she realizes then that it's blood, gushing out of her. She wants to sit up and look for him, but once she tries, her body protests, greatly.

She knows she is crying. Tears are falling rapidly down her cheeks in one constant motion. She wants to wipe them, to shrug them off and say it is nothing, but she is completely immobilized.

Her eyes are feeling heavy, and she is struggling to keep them open when he comes to her, sliding to her on the tile on his knees. If it was the right time, she would laugh at how funny it looked from her point of view. "Renee," he says to her, his voice cracking and his blue eyes swimming, "oh, God, Renee,"

She sees that he feels guilty, and she really wishes that he didn't feel that way. None of this was his fault. He was trying to help her, and she saw that.

If it weren't for him, she probably wouldn't be here, alive.

She wails as he puts pressure on her shoulder. It hurts, oh, how it hurts. She is in such pain that its feeling is indescribable; as if someone was pouring salt into an open wound. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he says to her in a breath. She can see that he does not want to hurt her, to put her through this pain, but that he is doing this because he has to.

Because he cares about her.

His face is inches from hers, and, although she isn't entirely sure how she does it, she lifts her hand to cup his face as if to say, "It's okay, don't worry, I'm right here,"

He still puts pressure on her shoulder and she wails again; she feels his hand grasp tightly onto hers when he does this. "Jack," she says to him, as loudly as she can, although the volume of her voice is only a little bit above a whisper.

"I'm right here, don't worry," he says back to her, offering up an assuring smile which she knew took a lot of effort.

"Jack," she says again. Her breath is getting shorter, and she begins to feel her body begin to shake. It's getting harder to breathe, and her vision is becoming blurred. No, she thinks sternly to herself, you can't do this.

He brings his face closer to hers, waiting for her to say something else. His breath is warm, and she takes in how it feels on the base of her neck. How much of a comfort it is to her. "I'm cold," she tells him in-between her short breaths.

She is freezing, in fact, and if it weren't for him being there, she would have realized this earlier. He rips off his jacket in an instant, and slowly lifts her. This pain is so much worse than the other times, and she yells so loudly that it scares her. He quickly wraps the jacket around her, acting like a blanket, and leans her back against the ground.

"Thank you," she tells him, and uses all of her strength to smile up at him. Her eyelids are drooping, and the last thing she sees is arogue tear escape his eye.

----------

There are people standing over her, a siren wailing loudly. They are poking and prodding things into her arms, neck, chest, shoulder. They are speaking medical terms, some of which she knows from college. Such as "Give her morphine, she's in a lot of pain," or "Find a central line, she's lost a lot of blood." She begins to feel herself fade again, and she feels her hand being squeezed tightly. She looks over to find him standing in the corner, her hand tightly wrapped around his. The paramedics working on her look down in shock to see that she has waken, but by the time the second one, tending to the heart-rate monitor, comes over, her world has gone black.

-------------

There are more people surrounding her. They are in scrubs, hurriedly rushing alongside what seems to be... a stretcher. She is on another stretcher, for the sheets are not blood-stained and it feels colder on her back.

The doctors have masks and yellow gowns on, with blue latex gloves enclosing their hands. They are all yelling at each other, telling the other what happened and where she was hit, how hard the impact was and how badly. "Jack," she says, in inquiry, her throat feeling like sandpaper.

Where is he?

"I'm right here, Renee," she hears behind her, and although she is in too much pain to turn her neck, she sees him run faster alongside her. "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere,"

With all of her might she clasps his hand, her eyes searching his. She wants to tell him that she'll be fine, that he doesn't need to worry. But what she says will not matter to him, not right now. She does not blame him; she would do the same.

Her eyes droop and she closes her eyes. She is unsure if they will reopen again.

Oh, how mean I am, leaving you all on a cliff-hanger. You all must be sharpening your pitchforks out for me, demanding the ending. BUT I'LL NEVER TELL!! I'm just kidding; you will all find out very soon!!

Until next time... ; )


	8. Chapter 8

If he were to speak bluntly, he has been through a shitload of stuff.

He has been electrocuted, beaten, tortured, burned, stabbed, shot, you name it, he's experienced it. He has dealt with all of the pain that its given him, all of the scars that it's left on him. He has dealt with it in his own way, silently and with dignity.

But never has he experienced so much anguish waiting for her outside of the OR.

At first, he begins to pace. Back and forth he walks on his heels, his shoes hitting against the hospital tile increasingly faster each time. The lights are blinding him, and he thinks to himself how much he hates them. How much they remind him of interrogation rooms.

When he realized that pacing so fervently that he was making scuff marks on the ground, he sits down, his fingers drumming on the armrest of the chair. All he can think about is her, how stupid he was to not watch her more carefully, how he should have checked which gun jams and which one didn't.

He should have paid closer attention.

The story that he had for the doctors was that they were stepping off of the plane when guns started to fire, and she was hit. It lined up, it made sense. Or, at least, it was good enough.

Although the paramedics had told him that she was stable, they still needed to operate on her to get the bullet out of her shoulder. Then the doctors came out, looking important in their primly-pressed coats, and told him what had happened.

"She passed out not because of the blood loss, but because of shock. She actually didn't loose as much blood as it seemed."

His mind flashed to the pool of blood that surrounded her in the airport, how it seemed to be gushing out of he endlessly...

"Does she have any family we could contact?" The doctor continues. The way he asks this makes his jaw clench.

"I'm her family," he responds back, his jaw tight with each word."

"We know, Mr. Stanford," the doctor responds, coolly. "We meant like any other family, such as her mother, or a sibling."

"I'm the only family she's got," he tells them, sternly. There is a slight, awkward pause between them, and the attending surgeon standing behind the doctor looks down at her feet, hoping to disappear.

"The surgery will be a couple of hours," The doctor continues, without missing a beat, "You'll be the first to know how she is when she gets out." He doesn't like the doctor, but only because he has her life in his hands, that he is to be cutting her open soon, and he will hate himself if that doctor plays with it carelessly.

They leave him in the waiting room outside of the OR, alone with his thoughts and his worries. He stands up, starting to pace again, but sits down, his head in his hands. She could be dying on a metal table while people cut her skin and he won't be able to stop it.

His mother died in a hospital. He was ten, and he was in his championship tournament with his little league team. It was his birthday, and he was up to bat.

He felt his face beam as he stepped up to the plate, the joyous praise of his father and mother coming from behind him. The pitcher was about to throw; he was winding up, his arm swinging, when he stopped mid-throw.

He straightened his spine and let the bat slip from his fingers when he saw the shocked expression of the pitchers face. He turned around to see that everyone in the bleachers had gone silent. His father's face was white, his mother slumped in his arms, her body jerking violently. His dad looks over at him, his eyes filling in the empty space.

He never told anyone that.

They had operated on his mother in a hospital quite like this one. Its walls are white and its lights bright and unforgiving. There is a TV in the corner of the waiting room entertaining itself, and a few people in chairs farther away from him, their judgment of him being that he must be crazy.

He doesn't trust doctors, which, probably, is why he went into law. Granted, he isn't a typical guy in that field, but he still works in it, still serves his country.

His head is still in his hands, his heart heavy. He looks up to find a hospital gift shop staring at him from across the corridor. He always wondered why there was a gift shop in the hospital; besides giving gifts to your loved ones, why would you want a memory from when you stayed in a hospital, the only feeling from that memory being pain?

A thought then occurs to him: she will need clothing. He remembers once how she told him that she broke her arm when she was twelve and they wrapped her body in a plastic-feeling gown, and how she hated it, for she only made holes in it. Her clothing she was wearing today will be bloody and stained. She will be in a hospital gown when she gets out of surgery, and she will detest it.

Walking over to the gift shop, he quickly scans the store for sweats. At first, all he finds are stuffed animals and flowers, but finally, on the back row, he finds sweat-pants and hoodies that say "BOSTON" across the chest. He takes dark blue sweats and a gray hoodie, draping them over his arm. As he goes to the cash register, he thinks of how she would need under-garments; surely those were bloody, too.

The mere thought of picking out her underwear and desperately trying to find the right bra for her brigs heat up to his neck and makes his face flush. He had never looked at her chest that long to know what her exact size was, out of respect to her, and he doesn't want to make the mistake of buying the wrong size and her feeling uncomfortable. He decides just to buy her underwear, and if she felt up to it, bring her down to buy a bra.

He pays for the clothing and walks back to the waiting room, the clothing warming his forearm. His foot taps impatiently, and when he looks down at his watch he realizes how exhausted he is. It 7:30 at night; this entire fiasco happened only three hours ago.

She went into surgery two and a half hours ago.

It really is heart-wrenching, waiting for someone you care about outside in the waiting room. She is the toughest, smartest, most wondefully kind-hearted person he knew.

She can't die.

He leans back in the chair, trying desperately to relax. To sleep. God knows he's been running all day; his mind just won't stop. He quickly scans the room, just because he needs something to calm him. There is a teen who looks about fifteen whose nose is completely bloody, the entire right sleeve of his sweatshirt dark crimson. A young mother with her baby who is sleepng soundly, yet she looks like she has seen a ghost. There are others, but he does not find it in him to analyze everyone.

The doctor comes to him, finally. Except he sees that it's the attending surgeon; out of courtesy, he stands up. She looks to be about late twenties, early thirties, with a petite waist and a soft face. He favors her over the doctor, just because he got a better vibe from her.

"Mr. Stanford," she says to him, a coy smile slipping onto her face, "your wife did fantastically. She was a real trooper in there."

"Did you get the bullet out? All of it?" he surprises himself at how worried he sounds. How real it is.

"There is a piece that was lodged into one of her nerves, and if pulled out, it would do major damage. It doesn't affect anything, except for the fact that she will forever have8 a piece of bullet embedded in her shoulder."

"Where is she now?" he asks the surgeon; he doesn't feel like small-talk.

"In her room, resting." she responds, and her eyes glaze downward to the clothing he is holding. "Wow," she says to him, sounding impressed, "you really think ahead."

He acts as if he hasn't heard her. "What room is she?"

"Room 362," she responds, professionally. She leads him to her room, and with each step his heart pounds in his chest, heavier and heavier.

The attending surgeon leads him to the door and backs away, giving them privacy.

When he opens the door, he almost wants to cry. She is hooked up to every type of hospital machine imaginable, all of them beeping harmoniously. She has needles in both of her arms, and she is wrapped in a hospital gown, her shoulder covered with gauze and an ace bandage; her arm is in a sling for support. He thanks the surgeon and walks over to the chair next to her bed.

He doesn't say anything, he just looks her over. He places the clothing at the end of her bed, a soft thud when it comes into contact with the scratchy hospital sheets.

He sees her hand laying relaxed on her side, and he grabs it with both of his hands. Her skin is so fair, so soft, he thinks to himself, and he traces his thumb lightly along her palm.

Her dark, burnt-red hair is pulled back in a limp ponytail that she rests on, wisps of hair rebelliously coming undone. He smiles softly to himself as he pushes them behind her ear, his hand resting softly on the back of her neck. It is warm, and he is so thankful for that.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers to her, although he knows she can't hear. "You mean the world to me." He wants to say more, but he just can't find the words. He holds her hand and closes his eyes, and finally, his mind stops spinning.


	9. Chapter 9

Her heart is racing a mile a minute.

She has nodded back into conciousness, which surprises her. Why does she keep fading? Is this temporary, or will they not be able to fix her?

They wheel her into the OR, and the dark lights and pointy instruments make her stomach churn. She doesn't want to be under to be operated on. She doesn't want to get her shoulder cut into so they could get the bullet out. "Give me some glue," she wants to say to them, "I'll

be fine."

But instead they are lifting her sore, exhausted body onto the metal table, the cold, icy temperature against her back making her gasp. Multiple doctors are talking, a set of tools next to, what she assumes, the head surgeon.

"Mrs. Stanford, take a deep breath, relax," the anesthesiologist says to her, comfortingly. How can she relax?she thinks to herself cynically, when they're about to cut her open?

They put a mask over her face, the doctor saying, "Now, count backward from ten for me,"

Even doing that felt like a chore. Still, she sighs softly to herself and begins. "Ten, nine, eight..." her voice trails off, she is feeling dizzy.

She thinks of him, and nods out of consciousness once more.

------------

She wakes up slowly, her head reeling as if she had gotten off of a rollercoaster ride. She feels sick to her stomach; the slight thought of something as light as crackers makes her gag.

She slowly opens her eyes, unknowing how her body would react. It is extremely bright in the room, and almost instantly she wishes she had kept her eyes shut. She slowly scans the room, and finds him sleeping soundly in the chair next to her.

"Oh, Jack," she mutters endearingly, a small smile on her face. Poor guy must be exhausted, she thinks to herself as she studies his face. For the first time in the entire day, it is peaceful.

She looks toward the end of her bed, and sees that there is a pile of clothing for her. Feeling more stable, she slowly leans over to get it, and gathers it in her arms. She smiles to herself when she sees what they are: sweats. Just what she needs right now.

She goes to change, but realizes just how many machines she's hooked up to. One is monitoring her heart rate, another, her blood pressure, and others more. Her left arm is also in a sling, to balance her wound.

She sighs, and examines the clothing he brought her. No bra, she notices, and she smiles thoughtfully at that.

She doesn't have the heart to wake him. He reminds her of a sleeping child after a long, exhausting day of soccer games; full of energy, yet so thankful for sleep. But she knew that if she were in her position, she would want to know the instant he woke up.

She taps his hand, softly. "Jack" she whispers to him, a smile softly forming on her face.

He does not budge. "Jack," she says again, a little louder and shaking him a little more firmly. Heavy sleeper, she thinks.

She shakes him one more time, with more vigor. "Stop messing around," she says to him, a chuckle rising in her tone.

She feels her face loose color when he slumps onto the ground, limply.

She doesn't care about the machines anymore; she rips the cords out of her arms and chest with her hand that isn't occupied by a sling. She hops out of the bed and onto the floor, two of her fingers tracing his neck for his carotid artery. She finds it and feels that, thank God,

he has a pulse, but it is faint. She then feels a small injection mark.

Looking closely at it, she sees it's a needle injection, and she gets the same feeling she felt at the airport.

No.

In her hospital gown she runs down the hallway. "Help!" she cries, as loud as her voice allows, "Please, someone help me," her breath is caught in her throat, her mind racing.

She feels her bare feet hit hard against the tile with each time she slams them onto the floor. Her heart is beating so fast and so hard that she feels it pulse through her body.

She is searching desperately for someone, but can find nobody. She checks the clock above the upcoming receptionists desk; 11:00, but wouldn't there be doctors on call?

She continues to cry for help, staying close to her room and on the same floor. When she can find no one, she runs back into her room, looking desperately for the nurse button.

What kills her is that she has to step over his limp body to reach it.

She hits it repeatedly, muttering to herself, "Come on, come on, anyone," she looks back at him, and grabs his hand.

She hears her door close behind her, and her she snaps her head back in the direction of the sound. "Please, help him, he just collapsed, I think someone injected him with something--"

But she is unable to finish, for a hard pinch is through her neck, and quickly, she goes numb and dark.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I know, I know, you all hate me. MORE cliff-hangers?! How DARE I? OH! Did you all see the promo for episode 18? I was crying tears of sadness because of what happened (I won't say about who, because I don't want to unintentionally spoil it!) and then I was crying tears of joy because of that little flash of those two! : D Made my week. Oh, yes, sorry, I was talking of how mean I was. But it's so FUN! And it keeps you all on your toes! ; D Enjoy the next chapter : )

BY THE WAY: This chapter is a little different. I couldn't decide on which POV to truly execute, so I decided to switch back and forth in one chapter. When you're done with the chapter, you'll see why. ; )

He wakes up in complete darkness.

His heart catches in his throat when he realizes that his hands our bound, and there is something over his head. He shakes in the chair that he's tied in, and tries to yell, but finds his mouth gagged and taped.

"I see that you're up, Mr. Bauer," he hears from behind him. He stops moving instantly. He knows that voice.

The bag is ripped off of his head, and he is able to see again. He is in some sort of basement, with dim lighting. It is small and compact, with concrete-brick walls, and the floor is also concrete. There is a table set up with technology and wires; various things are beeping at him, and he cannot figure out what they are.

A man appears from behind him, and his heart stops.

It's Vladimir.

Vladimir rips off the duct-tape, and he spits it at his feet, almost in disgust. How could he be smiling at him when he knows that he tortured her? Raped her?

Destroyed her?

"How are you still alive?" he says to him, stern and coldly.

"I do not think you are in a position to ask questions, Mr. Bauer," he responds coolly, circling him. "Do you know why you're here?"

He doesn't even know _how _he's here, let alone why. All he could think about was her. Was she okay? And then another thought occurs to him.

Where is she?

When he doesn't answer, Vladimir punches him, and squats down, eye-level with him. "I asked you a question," he says, his Russian accent thicker when draped with anger.

"No," he responds, through his teeth. "Where is Renee?" He asks this boldly, and harshly; it just blankets the fear rising in his tone.

"All in good time, Mr. Bauer," he responds, and walks over to the computer, his eyes scanning the screen and his hands behind his back. "You have something very dear to me," Vladimir says this in a way where it's so composed and cool that it's almost intimidating.

He tries to think of what he could have; weapons? The ability to make deals for immunity? What, exactly, does this guy want?

He does not respond to him. Instead, he feels his jaw clench and he looks up at him, his eyes darkening. "You have Renee," Vladimir says back, and hits him again.

He feels his jaw writhing in pain, blood dripping somewhere from his face, but he doesn't care. He didn't want Vladimir to get Renee; further more, he felt awful thinking of Renee as an object, something to be negotiated with. She was so much more than that.

So much more to him.

"There is no way in hell you're getting her," he says through his teeth, his heart pumping at the dreadful thought of what would happen if Vladimir did, in fact, find Renee.

The thought that he doesn't know where she is scares him, but at the same, makes it hopeful. This means that, maybe, Vladimir doesn't know where she is. Maybe she escaped, or was able to go somewhere safe. It would kill him if he never saw her again, tear up his heart into tiny pieces and his soul in two, but if he knew she was safer that way, then he would be able to take it.

"Well, here's the thing, Mr. Bauer," Vladimir says to him, squatting down in front of him, "I already have her."

She can't breathe.

She feels like she is suffocating; there is something over her head, a bag, she assumes, and it's completely black. Her hands are bound around a chair, and only is it then that she realizes how much her shoulder hurts, with her hand straining that far behind her back.

Her feet are bound, too, underneath the chair. She can't really distinguish what is holding her together, but by the smell of it, it appears to be duct-tape.

Her mind begins to flutter with questions; is she alone in the room? Is there someone else with her?

Is he here?

Oh, God, she hopes not. Whatever these people want from her, she can deal with, she can handle. But her heart breaks at even the thought of him getting hurt... she knows that he's a big boy, and that he can fight his own battles, but the thought of him getting hurt...

It crushes her.

She wants to yell, she wants to scream and kick and wake up from this terrible nightmare, but nothing is going to help her. She is stuck in this chair, in this moment, and she cannot help it.

She lets a tear roll down her cheek, silently and quickly, as if nothing had happened.

She suddenly feels herself being moved. She does not know where she is going, but the new room she is in is bigger, cooler. They rip the bag off of her head, and she looks around fervently, for something, someone, anything.

She then sees him, bound to a chair, not even five feet across from her.

Her heart sinks to the floor, but she cannot lose her composure. She hears footsteps from behind her, and the man who emerges makes he stomach churn and her face turn white.

Vladimir.

"Renee," he says softly to her, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. He smiles gently at her, as if toying with her playfully. "Oh, how I've missed you." He takes the duct-tape off of her mouth cautiously, and holds out his hand for her to spit out her gag.

Her eyes flicker over to his, but she makes it brief; she knows how Vladimir works, and what he wants. "It's been too long, Vlad," she tells him, flatly, "but if you wanted my attention, this was not the way to go about it."

"Oh, no, this was exactly the way," he says, walking over to him and smiling, a little. "I knew that taking your would get your attention."

Mr. Bauer. Although a sinister monster, cold-blooded and cruel, he always had his strict politeness as a prominent trait. But the way he says his name, _Mr. Bauer_, the way he lets it roll around in his mouth and enter the air makes her stomach churn.

She does not respond to statement; she looks at the floor and then back up to him, smiling a little. Oh, how the smile plastered on her face burns her. "Come on, Vlad," she says, smirking, "Jack didn't do anything."

Vladimir comes closer to her, his face inches away with hers. She leans her head so that her mouth is next to his ear. "It's me that you want," she tells him, seductively. She doesn't care what she has to do; if it means him, the man tied up across from her that she deeply cared about, gets away, then it's worth it. "Let him go,"

Her eyes quickly graze once more over to him. He is staring at her, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes swelling. I'm sorry, she wants to say to him, please don't think of me as a monster.

Vladimir looks back at her, his face serious. "You care about this man?" He asks, shocked, and because she had known him for so long, somewhat hurt.

"No--" She begins to say, but is cut off by the slap of his palm across her face.

"Do not lie to me!" He bellows, his voice enraged with anger. He grabs a gun off of the table, which was holding a laptop and multiple wires, and aims it at his head.

No.

"I'm not," she says, sternly, her jaw, which received the main blow of his hit, aching so much that the constant reminder of pain from her shoulder doesn't seem so bad. She is trying so hard not to cry in fear, so hard not to cry, in general.

"Then why do you want me to let him go?" He demands, looking down at her, his eyes absolutely crazy with anger. He cocks the gun.

She looks over at him, her eyes beginning to swell. I'm sorry, she wants to say to him, please don't hate me for this, I'm doing this because I need you to be alive.

I need you.

"Who said letting him go?" She says to Vladimir, a small smile that killed her inside plastered on her face, "Do you know how much an American is _worth?_"

A/N: Sorry this took so long to post. I had a bit of a block and I wasn't really sure how to run with this. But I think I've got this down. : ) Hope you guys can't wait for more!


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: FRIENDS!! I am so terribly sorry about the long wait. I've been very busy with school work, and there was a horrible scare in my family, so I haven't been able to write a lot. I hope you enjoy this next chapter! AND, by the way, I was bawling 8:00-9:00. Jus' sayin'. BUT NO I DID NOT FORGET ABOUT YOU! : D

What?

That's the only word he can think of as Vladimir unties her, her hands shaking so slightly that only he notices. What the hell is happening?

They have re-gagged him, for reasons he was unsure of. Probably because they didn't want to hear his opinons.

To hear him, at all.

When she is untied, she stands, and rubs her shoulder. "I'm sorry about that, Renee," Vladimir says to her, seeing her shoulder, and gently touching it. "I told my men to be careful when they bound you."

"Its fine," she responds, gruffly. She cradles her wrists in her hands after she is freed; they are red.

He is still in the chair, bound. He is looking at her with betrayal and inquisition. How could she do this to him?

Why?

She keeps looking at him, and there is a certain flicker in her eye when she does, but before he can decipher it, it is gone, and the feeling of raw and unadulterated hurt forms in the pit of his stomach fills again.

"I'm sorry," she tells Vladimir, sharply. "About what I did to you."

"You left quite the scars, Renee," he responds back, coolly. "My men found me in the morgue and recessitated me; the eye was of no use, so I used a glass eye for a while. There was a doctor back in Russia who could give me a new, functioning one, and he did; my eyes do not match anymore, but they are both working."

He sees her look into his eyes, acknowledging them. He feels his heart absolutely shattering.

"There are other scars on my body, too, but I'm sure you know about that." Vladimir speaks to her in almost an undertone, a way of scolding her, making her feel guilty. Although he feels absolutely hurt, he wants to punch Vladimir in the face. "Maybe you'll see all of them later," he says this deviously to her, and he watches her face; it drops for a moment, but her face is blocked out of his line of sight by Vladimir's head, angling into her neck.

"Stop," she murmurs to him, "Not in front of him," her head bobs in his direction. He looks into her eyes, and for a moment, they lock. His breath catches in his throat.

He gets it.

"Later, then" Vladimir mumbles into her neck, his voice a low, groggy tone, and she nods, hesitantly.

Vladimir smiles at her, and moves toward the laptop. "What are you doing?" she asks him, slightly tentative.

"Setting up a webcam," he responds to her, coolly.

"Webcam?" she asks, her voice somewhat shaky. He noticed it, and he feared that Vladimir would notice it, too.

Vladimir looks up in slight inquisition, but thinks nothing of it. "You want the proper ransom for him? You video him to the top; the President of the United States."

His heart falls as he thinks of how she is silently, and subtly, falling into utter fear and distress. She is looking at him while Vladimir's back is turned, and silently, mouths the words "I'm so sorry,"

He gives her a slight nod, a nod which he hopes translates to something in the terms of "I understand,"

Vladimir slips on a mask, and stands next to him. "Get the camera ready," he says to her, "and patch this to the president."

I love you guys, and I hope you don't hate me too much for making you wait this long : ) My aunt is better though, so this means more updates! : D


	12. On a Personal Author's Note

On a personal author's note:

Hai guys : ) This isn't part of the story at all, but I felt it fair to only explain why I hadn't updated in so long! My aunt has cancer, and she's been going through chemo, so we've been trying to see her as often as we could. Also, school has been a giant contributing factor; it's the week before my spring break, and all of the teachers have been struggling to get everything in before it's over!

I hope you guys don't hate me too too much about not updating in so long. It had been on my mind for the past week and I felt so terribly awful. I promise you though, I will update as soon as I am able to : )

Have a great day, or night, or wherever you are : )

Sincerely,

Ali : D


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: You guys are all so sweet. Thank you so much for understanding the lag in chapters; this isn't the last one, by the way! When it's the last chapter, I will boldly label it as such, and an epilogue will most likely follow it. But, you never knooooowwww.... ; )

Enjoy!

Holy dear God.

She watches cautiously as Vladimir sets up the camera, his fingers working skillfully across the wires. She is standing off to the right side of him, behind him, her hand in her sweatshirt pocket while her other hand gripping tightly onto the edge of her sling. She could tell herself repeatedly that this wasn't happening, that this was all just a dream, but she knew that she wasn't and she knew that those thoughts were not going to help her now. If she wants to help him, help herself get out of this, she has to think fast, and now.

Her eyes scan the room, looking for some sort of weapon. There are no guns or knives; she knows that Vladimir has learned not to have any of those in the room. She looks at Vladimir, who is bending over the computer, working carefully. Without warning, he looks up at her and says sharply, "Come on, Renee, I need your help,"

Startled, she walks over to help him, when she notices something bulging slightly from the back of his jeans. It black, and as she gets closer she realizes that it's a gun.

Before she can help Vladimir, she looks over at him; he looks at the gun and then back at her, nodding. He sees it, he gets it, and that's all she needs.

She let's her fingers work across the wires, holding the camera steady as Vladimir hooks the wires up with it and the computer. "How do you expect to get this to the President?" she asks him, forcing her tone cold.

"I know people," he says, a slight annoyance in his voice, and straightens his spine. "We're set." he pulls out his cell phone and begins to dial.

She cannot look at him; Vladimir's gaze is set on her. He comes closer to her, his hand on her face, pushing her hair behind her ear. His hand is cold against her cheek, and it does not have the same softness as his. She wants to push it away, to spit at Vladimir, to untie him and go home.

"We're ready," he says to the other person on the line, in Russian. "Two minutes." He hangs up, and looks at her. "We've got two minutes," he says to her, staring her straight in the eye.

He walks away from her, grabbing his black mask and pulling it over his face. "What are you going to say?" she asks him, calmly, although her heart is in her throat.

"That I want the amount I deserve for this man and if they do not comply, I will kill him." He sets up a soft, blue background on the wall behind him. "I know that he is of great importance to the President."

"How much money," she says this business-like, her arms awkwardly, yet casually crossed.

"Oh, not money," Vladimir responds. "Documents on all of the nuclear weapons on U.S. soil."

Before she can object, he turns back around, tending to the background. As he bends down to tape the corners, his gun is peeking out of his pants, nearly hitting the ground. She quickly grabs it and hides it in her sweatshirt pocket, without, miraculously, Vladimir noticing. She looks at him, and she watches as the corners of his mouth slightly curve.

There is a beep from the computer, and her head snaps as she sees the President's face fills the screen, full of worry, yet ethically composed. "This is President Taylor," she says, slowly.

"President Taylor," Vladimir says, "I think I have someone of importance with me here, someone who is very valuable to you."

"Yes," she responds back,"You do, Mr...?" her voice trails searching for a name.

"Mine name is not important," he tells her, "Whats important is what I have, and what I'm willing to do to him unless you comply with my wishes."

"What do you want?" Taylor responds back; she cannot see her, for she is to the left of the camera. Wrapping the gun with the extra cloth of her sweatshirt, she muffles the sound of it loading.

"All of the records of nuclear weapons on U.S. soil, and their locations." He says this as if he just said that he went out to lunch; no big issue.

"That is impossible," the President responds, and because of this, he receives a blow to the face.

"Nothing is impossible, Madame President," he responds, coolly. He goes to pull out his gun, but finds it missing. He searches his pants in a quick frantic, and lividly looks up at her. "You little bitch," he seethes, and runs toward her, about to strangle her.

She pulls out the gun and begins to shoot, her finger pressing on the trigger uncontrollably.

Vladimir's body flinches violently in contact with the bullet, and on the last impact, falls to the ground. He is bleeding profusely from the mouth, and is coughing up blood. She shoots him again, his life truly and finally ending.

She goes to the computer screen where a horrified President Taylor is looking on with terror. "Madame President," she says to her, politely and gruffly, and turns off the camera.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: **LAST CHAPTER!! **I know, it's depressing! But don't you worry, there will be an epilogue; I feel like it is called for ; ) This one switches POVs, thus the ----- being the indicators. ENJOY! : D

He watches her rush over to him, her hands shaking.

The first thing she does is rip the duct-tape off of his mouth; it stings, but it's something he can deal with. "Jack," she says, exasperated and hurriedly. He thinks to himself that after everything they've gone through today, hearing her say his name has truly been the thing that kept him going.

"Renee," he responds back, lightly and with care. Her name to him is like something delicate; you have to hold it firm enough for it not to slip through your fingers, and yet light enough where it doesn't crease. "Renee, are you okay?"

She doesn't answer him. He feels the pressure of the bounds on his wrists tighten and first, and then release, his hands free. Once they are available, he puts them on her face, to stop her from continuing her frantic actions of releasing him. "Slow down," he tells her, firmly and with caution. "Please. Take your time, it's okay,"

She cuts his feet free and sits on her knees, her hands resting on top of her thighs. Her head slightly falls to the left, her eyes darting to the floor. She sighs, and looks back up at him; the light that catches in her eyes makes him think that she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. "Jack," she says, shaking her head, "I'm so sorry,"

He falls to his knees, on the floor with her. He wraps his arms around her and she falls into him, crying, her hands captured and up against his chest. It's almost as if he can breathe again; she no longer has to be scared, she can go to sleep at night knowing that there isn't someone out there who wants her dead.

He can finally go to sleep at night.

"Shh," he tells her, whispering into her ear, kissing her crown, "it's okay. Renee, it's alright, it's going to be alright," He rocks her slightly, as if she is a small child who has just skinned her knee. He is her shelter, who will always be there for her, who will always be there to kiss her wounds and tell her that everything is going to be fine.

She looks up at him with wet, doe-like eyes, and his heart melts and shatters at the same time. "I hated using you like that," she says, in a breath. "I had... I had..." When she cannot finish her sentence, he helps her up, bringing her to her feet.

"Renee," he says to her softly, looking her in the eye. He pushes her hair gently behind her ear, and lets the back of his hand graze lightly against her cheek. "I know. I know what you had to do and why you did it." When she looks down and away from his eyes, he lifts her chin, forcing their eyes to connect. "It's okay,"

She sniffles, and nods, the back of her sleeve wiping her eyes. "You're too good to me," she says to him softly, continuing to wipe her eyes.

"Renee," he says to her, "do you realize how much you mean to me?" She looks up at him in inquiry, and if he could, he would laugh; is she really this blind? He had stopped trying to be discreet with her from the end of the first hour of her presence. Maybe she was caught up in the craziness of it all, the heat of the moment.

She opens her mouth to say something, but is interrupted by something swinging open. "Hello?" Someone calls from above.

"Down here!" He shouts, responding to the voice. He knew whose it was, an agent from CTU. They had found them.

He hears the CTU agent saying something to a commanding officer, and soon, there are agents bounding down the stairs to the cellar they were trapped in.

He looks at her, their last few moments of being alone together, and wipes the remaining tears in her eyes. He smiles coyly at her, and it sends his heart pounding harshly against his chest when she returns it back, the same tenderness as his.

They go up the stairs and out of the cellar into what seems like a normal-looking house. He doesn't think much of it, though; he doesn't have to.

"Jack," Renee says to him, when they are alone in a small, secluded area of the home, yet she is interrupted his phone ringing.

"Dammit," he mutters, and looks at the screen; **WASHINGTON, D.C.** "Bauer," he greets, professionally. As he listens to the woman on the other line, saying that he is being dispatched to the President, he takes her hand and leads her out of the house. Throughout the day, when he would grab her hand, she would let it limply stay, without it fully wrapping itself around his. Now he finds that she truly entwines her fingers with his, letting him lead the way.

He suppresses a chuckle knowing that the headstrong her that he is familiar with and takes comfort in will kick back in soon enough, but right now, he enjoys being the one she can lean her head on.

-----

They are outside, leaning against the side of the house, while he is talking to the President. CTU had already asked the simple questions; they were alone now, and to themselves.

His eyes are always to the ground when he talks on the phone, she's noticed. Maybe it's just a tick that he has when he talks on the phone; she knows that for herself, she tends to walk around in circles aimlessly, as if trying to get somewhere.

His eyes are a brilliant shade of blue in the bright sunlight. This is when it dawns on her; where, exactly, are they? Where did they end up? Knowing Vladimir, they could be back in Russia.

She decides not to press the matter when she sees the black, famous, CTU vans parked along the curbside; she can ask later, if she wanted. She knew that right now, everyone is inside the house.

She watches as he flips his cell phone closed and looks at her, his eyes studying her face.

Those eyes can kill me, she thinks to herself.

"The President wants to question us later," he says to her, softly, his words being carried along with the fresh, spring wind, "but once we're more composed."

She nods, and lets her eyes fall onto their hands, still together. She brings them up, and looks at them. "I want this," she says to him, after a pause. She looks up at him; he has not tore his gaze away from hers. "I want this so badly," she says this with a sigh, "and I have the feeling that you want this, too." She looks up at him again, this time her gaze locking with his. "You are the only person who has ever truly cared for me before, Jack. Honestly, I don't know anyone who would ever go to this length just to save me."

He doesn't say anything to her. His eyes dart from one eye to the other, examining both deeply and thoroughly. She almost felt like she should be looking away, that he was staring straight down into her soul. When he doesn't say anything back to her, she opens her mouth to speak.

But she is cut off by the sudden collision of his mouth against hers. She feels her heart legitimately stop in her chest, and then begin to pound so hard that it feels like it is merely humming. She feels his arms wrap around her waist, holding onto her softly yet dearly, as if afraid she would slip away. But the way she tries to kiss him is to tell him that she doesn't plan to go anywhere, she doesn't plan to leave him. With her right hand she holds his face; never in her wildest dreams did she imagine this type of pleasure. Yet it was happening. He is holding her, kissing her, loving her, and for a moment, she has to remember that this is actually happening.

That it's real.

Their embrace is not violently passionate, but enough for her to forget everything and just live in the moment. They mutually break the embrace, slowly, and end with their faces inches apart. She feels herself stop breathing when the feeling of his warm breath catches on her neck; she does not want him to leave. He is too perfect, too wonderful.

Too good to her.

She feels like she is floating, that despite whatever has happened to her today, she feels... fine. Normal. Loved. It's odd for her. But it feels good. It's something she hasn't felt in a long, long time.

She begins to speak, but stops, not able to properly articulate the words.

"What is it?" He asks her softly, so softly that it makes her want to kiss him again.

"Jack," she says to him, cautiously. She has to be realistic with him, although it is, quite honestly, the very last thing she wants. "What happens now?"

He just smiles at her and kisses her again, this time making her knees go weak and her only standing support being from the house. He wraps her in his arms again, and she falls into them, comfortably and warmly. She has found it.

A place to call her home.

A/N: Yes, it is the end! What did you think? I don't think I'm going to write an epilogue... I'm not sure if it would fit. Let me know if you think otherwise ; )

I just personally wanted to say thank you so much for commenting and reading my stories. Everyone has been so kind and lovely and wonderful that it simply amazes me and makes me feel extremely special. You all are so grand, and I truly do adore each and every one of you.

I will probably move on to a few one-shots; they will be easier to write, considering the circumstances standing in my family.

Until next time, my friends.... ; )


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